


gloss

by rackam



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, aoidos swears a little, descriptions of lip gloss, rackam is too powerful, stilettos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-12 04:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rackam/pseuds/rackam
Summary: Aoidos’ thumb lathers Rackam’s bottom lip, pressing in the dip where soft lips part.“You used more this time.”





	gloss

**Author's Note:**

> i’m glad i didn’t write this on no nut november
> 
> edit 5/21/20 bassist rackam ?? on god ?? i can’t believe i won granblue

Rackam jolts when his back suddenly lodges against a wall.

“Hang on.” Aoidos drapes a leg over his waist. “You’re sitting right here.”

Rackam’s eyes narrow. “The hell? We’re in the middle of a _ performance_—”

Aoidos shushes him, hand on lip. “You don’t want anyone to hear, do you?”  
  
Rackam glares, holds himself upright with a leg until Aoidos shoves his weight down.  
  
“My performance, so I call the shots. Now sit.”  
  
It was breaktime, and Aoidos’ staff roam his main stage for their upcoming song: Bloody Garden. But Aoidos has Rackam’s entire lap seated in a backstage corner, despite how anyone can easily walk into them.

Aoidos hears the nipping voice telling him Rackam is right, that harvin spokesperson, his right hand man, can easily walk in at any minute, but he shoves it in the back of his mind—there is a more pressing matter in front of him.

Instead of wearing his armor, Rackam has a blazing white dress shirt donned with a silk black vest, down to his slim red pants. His sleeves are cuffed, and a ribbon laces the back of his hair into a thin ponytail.  
  
Aoidos brushes a thumb to Rackam’s bottom lip and gently swipes slick gloss applied earlier, pressing in the dip where soft lips parted.  
  
“You used more this time.” Aoidos hears a click to the floor—probably from Rackam, the stiletto platforms still adjusting to.  
  
Rackam’s cheeks glow bright pink and he averts Aoidos’ glare before muttering a lie. “Staff made a new suggestion, and I followed. It’s nothing special.”  
  
In truth, he wants to know what charms Aoidos’ audience with his presence alone. Rackam took advice from a staff lady who eagerly gestured wearing red.  
  
Aoidos breathes in, and the air in his lungs are unpredictably shaky. “I wouldn’t be this bothered if this were nothing special.”  
  
Firmly seated on warm lap like it’s his throne, Aoidos’ hands travel down, trail the strings on Rackam’s vest and tug.  
  
The way Rackam’s chest tightens along fabric was simply _ tantalizing_. Aoidos draws a hand up and marvels his work, along the seams that graciously outline Rackam’s pecs. He takes a palmful and squeezes, the shirt erogenously tight, allowing his palm to press the pert, sensitive bud underneath.  
  
The soft moan that escapes goes straight from Aoidos’ ear down to his groin. Aoidos swallows a curse, wants to savor those noises like a fine wine.  
  
Rackam pants, mind a little fuzzy. “We could get walked in—”  
  
Aoidos pouts. His fingers make a cupping motion. “But you have such lovely breasts,” he whines, his partner’s chest very soft and warm in his palms. He’d make note for Rackam to wear more vests.  
  
Mn. _ God_, even Rackam’s suit lined perfectly with the curve of his hips, forming a beautifully shaped figure.  
  
Aoidos glances only to see Rackam, albeit a little riled up, is completely serious.  
  
But Aoidos is just as serious, leans and murmurs in the shell of Rackam’s ear. “You don’t want to?”  
  
The way Aoidos rolls into his lap with a groan was absolutely sultry and Rackam _ actually considers _ messing around in a small backstage corner.  
  
“...How much time do we have?”  
  
“Around 30 minutes.”  
  
Rackam shifts, “That’s not enou—”  
  
“—Only if we make it to be.” Aoidos shushes him twice. “Ever heard of a quickie?”  
  
Rackam’s breath hitches, face now red as his suit. He chokes a moan—friction seeping through silk fabric and onto his length. Aoidos really must have a thing for this.  
  
Aoidos peers at his bassist—from the bits of lip gloss smeared on his face down to his lusciously adorned silk vest, and neither sight seems to make him less aroused.  
  
Aoidos isn’t stupid. The audience was clearly louder than usual, assuming from their location until his eyes widen to a completely transformed Rackam on stage.  
  
He couldn’t blame the fans—Rackam was beautiful, a sight that leaves Aoidos so delirious mid-song it nearly drives him crazy.  
  
He makes a loud moan when suddenly his weight shifts and Rackam thrusts up his lap. His legs spread wider, towards rushed heat and a sensual pool in his gut.  
  
Hands glide the seams of his high-end boots, unsure on where to lay until Aoidos firmly latches them on the back of his hip. He makes a strangled noise at those hands wavering down, kneading plush skin.  
  
Another soft, small moan comes from Rackam as hips sink forward. Aoidos was slow yet firm, lets out a low groan, length rippling bits of pleasure from the fabric.  
  
Aoidos rocks into a slow rhythm, drinking their labored breaths and the way Rackam’s lips part open in short gasps—until his vision spins and everything shifts into place.  
  
A hand squeezes Aoidos’ shoulder until he was flat against the wall.  
  
“Rackam—”  
  
“Just sit down.”  
  
Rackam makes quick work of Aoi’s belt and dress-wear, pulls dark cloth to his knees and sinks down. Aoidos barely recognizes their position until his legs suddenly warm and a mouth hovers between them.  
  
Rackam lets out a soft blow, draws his tongue across an uncovered length before pumping, “Who would’ve thought the legendary Aoidos was a horny little shit.”  
  
Aoidos scoffs. “You’re the one who fell to your knees.”  
  
Rackam’s eyes narrow into a glare, as to say “watch me,” before sinking until Aoidos pressed the back of his throat.  
  
Aoidos jolts, kicks the back of the ledge. “_S-Shit_, Rackam—”  
  
But Rackam continues, holds Aoidos down with a glove and works up, trails Aoidos’ tip with his tongue, slips under foreskin and swirls gently.  
  
Aoidos makes a quick gasp and moans another curse as his own heel clicks the surface, leg quivering under Rackam’s hand.  
  
The noise that slips from Aoidos was sweet and wavering. Aoidos sighs, tries not to spill on the helmsman and tracks their time, hears muffled conversations and thumps from staff next door.  
  
Aoidos tries his best not to stare and links strands of brown hair between his fingers out of habit, earning a low groan from below. Aoidos’ thoughts are jumbled and incoherent, but _ where the hell did Rackam learn this _ easily ran the back of his mind.  
  
Aoidos sits up, tails a leg on Rackam’s back and pulls forward, buries himself in warmth while bucking his hips repeatedly. One hard thrust after another, because Aoidos couldn’t get enough of Rackam’s groans, near _whimpers_ while fucking his mouth in rhythm, and he notes his lack of gag reflex.  
  
Regaining his composure yet losing it by the second, Aoidos’ hair falls on a smooth, arched back as he stops abruptly, tugging hair and letting Rackam’s lips barely hover his tip.   
  
“No way this is your first time.” Aoidos hisses, as coherent as he could muster while slowly losing control over his little private session. The image of him dripping hot from Rackam’s mouth clouds his vision. Aoidos feels a light smirk around his length as the other hums, lips smearing gloss and curling so obscenely he’d nearly lost his last sliver of reason and come right then and there.

Rackam can taste him, beads spreading his tongue with a bitter aftertaste, a reminder Aoidos may call the shots, but give a scenario and they both easily have the other wrapped around a finger.

Rackam’s lips pull back with a loud _ pop, _followed by a kiss, and Aoidos whines from the loss of warmth. Rackam sits up and two gloved fingers gently hover Aoidos’ mouth, the uncovered one tugging him in gentle strokes.  
  
Rackam leans in, voice husked and low in his throat, the gloss messy with bits of precome in this little game of theirs. “Aren’t you supposed to be quiet?”

**Author's Note:**

> rackam wears stilettos and aoidos dies instantly (asmr)


End file.
